


Relearn

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:52:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they still know so much of each other’s history and makeup, but it’s adjusted to a new consistency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relearn

**Author's Note:**

> for 12/9 himuniji

Shuuzou doesn’t expect Tatsuya to be there. He knows Tatsuya’s been coaching back in the states (thanks to his sister, who makes it a point to inform him what exactly Tatsuya’s been up to even though they’ve been broken up for half as long as the time they were together) and that he’s been doing well, and for a brief second when he’d been named offensive coordinator at the Olympics he had let himself imagine the what-ifs of meeting Tatsuya at the tournament, but he’d dismissed it just as easily. He didn’t think Tatsuya would agree to be an assistant (even to Alex); he didn’t think Tatsuya would particularly want to come to Tokyo of all places—even if, by his own biased opinion, Tatsuya’s always had the makings of a damn good coach, the US is clogged with so many basketball minds with pedigree and connections that even though he deserves it it’s not likely he’ll make the cut. But he gives a cursory glance to the American bench when the team’s warming up, to see who exactly Alex’s team is made of, and among the group of people he doesn’t recognize there he is.

He’s just as beautiful as ever, suit perfectly-tailored to hug his taut body and arms animated as he discusses something or other, calling over one of his players for a little talk and flashing her a smile at the end—even though he’s however-many rows up, Shuuzou catches the brilliance of it and he can’t look away.

Araki taps him on the side of the head with the hilt of her sword (which she’d somehow managed to get through security).

“You’re here to scout the teams, not ogle the American defensive coach.”

Shuuzou’s face heats up as if it’s been submerged in a warm cup of tea. He can’t look at her. Araki sighs; he hears a rustle of papers and then she drops a clipboard in his lap.

“Take notes. On actual defense, so you can counter it tomorrow. I don’t want to see anything about how pretty Himuro’s lips are.”

“I wouldn’t!” says Shuuzou, face flaring even hotter.

Araki’s grinning when he looks at her; he knows she’s only teasing but even so.

Shuuzou manages to keep his eyes on the court—for most of the game. His eyes keep swerving over to Tatsuya like iron filings drawn to a heavy magnet; the way Tatsuya paces around the side of the court and jots down things on his clipboard is almost hypnotizing and several times he actually has to snap himself out of it. And as the second half starts, Tatsuya glances up into the stands—for a second his gaze seems to meet Shuuzou’s and his lips flicker upward like static on an old television set. Shuuzou blushes all over again (what is he, twelve?) even though it’s possible Tatsuya didn’t see him or was looking somewhere else—probable, even. Still, the moment sticks in his head after the game, when he’s supposed to be helping his players prepare—he reads his notes off the paper and instructs them how to counter, but he’s still thinking about Tatsuya’s eye, the shape of his face, the expressions, all the things he’d convinced himself he didn’t miss anymore.

* * *

 

It wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t looked at Tatsuya at all the day before; the Americans clearly have the better team and while it’s not a blowout there’s never really much of an opportunity to mount a comeback. Their offense is firing on all cylinders; their defense is tight enough to neutralize Shuuzou’s best offensive plans. With every blocked shot, Shuuzou looks over; sometimes Tatsuya catches his eye and other times he’s still focused on the players or his clipboard (and Shuuzou wants to stare forever at how aggressively animated he is).

They still haven’t gotten a chance to talk properly, although perhaps it’s for the best—what would Shuuzou even say? It’s bound to be even more awkward than their occasional text-message exchanges; they’ve been apart for too long that the ease of fitting back together has to have been erased, like rocks worn down by the waves. And they’re on opposite sides in this tournament; maybe they’ll play each other again but that will be that—Tatsuya will go home again and maybe they’ll never see each other again. And even though they were together once, Shuuzou can’t expect anything more than this.

He’s chatting with the other coaches outside the locker rooms when Tatsuya appears from around the corner, accompanied by (or accompanying—Shuuzou’s not sure which, not that it makes a difference) Alex. He flicks his hand in a wave; Shuuzou almost automatically waves back.

“Can’t say I didn’t teach you well, Himuro,” says Araki.

Tatsuya laughs and shrugs. “I have talented students. And a wonderful head coach.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” says Alex, but she ruffles his hair.

Tatsuya spends a few second smoothing it out, pouting his lips the same way he always has that’s so damn adorable—Shuuzou can’t stop a half-fond smile from spreading across his face, and when Tatsuya’s satisfied with his appearance he looks at Shuuzou first.

“Hey, Shuu. How have you been?”

Shuuzou swallows. His throat is suddenly dry; he wouldn’t bet on anything sensible coming out of his mouth if he opened it and just let the words flow.

“Uh. Fine, uh. Good game.”

Tatsuya inclines his head. “Thanks. You didn’t do so bad yourself. Your offense got pretty creative.”

Shuuzou shrugs. “Well, your players sort of forced our hand there.”

Tatsuya smiles; Shuuzou’s not sure what to say or what to do.

“Let me buy a drink,” he blurts out.

Tatsuya raises his eyebrow.

“To congratulate you. On your victory.”

* * *

The awkward small talk has dissipated like fog by the time they sit down to eat; the patter of their conversation fits like rain in the cracks of the sidewalk and the bottom of sloping windowsills, and it’s even easier to imagine the what-ifs when they have to lean close in the low lighting of the bar to see each other. But this was never the issue; it’s not that the attraction or the chemistry was ever not there (and even when they were in the middle of a drag-out fight it was so easy to get caught up in their familiar rapport all over again). And it’s all too easy to imagine Tatsuya’s lips on his and sleeping with Tatsuya nestled safely in his arms and whispering promises that go lip-to-ear with every intention of being fulfilled, but it’s even easier to imagine promises broken and Tatsuya drawing away from him and withdrawing like a clam burying itself into the sand and saying things that neither of them really means and both of them regret.

“You play Lithuania tomorrow?” Tatsuya says.

Shuuzou nods. “It’ll be tough.”

“You’ll do fine,” says Tatsuya. “It’s not like you to have so little confidence.”

“It’s not that,” says Shuuzou, tapping his fingers on the bar. “Even if we’re better, nothing’s a sure bet.”

He meets Tatsuya’s gaze; Tatsuya leans even closer. Shuuzou could just kiss him right now—and all the very good, logically sound arguments as to why he shouldn’t are fading away and all he can think about are Tatsuya’s lips.

Tatsuya pulls back. “I’m not worried. But I’ll wish you luck, if that helps.”

Shuuzou forces out a laugh. Fuck. That had been his chance; he blew it wavering—funny how he can go out on the courts and follow his impulses but here he can’t just take a simple action.

“Anyway, it’s getting late,” says Tatsuya. “I should go. But thank you for the drink.”

He leans in to hug Shuuzou, and for a moment their bodies are pressed together; for a moment it feels so horribly right and familiar like the pieces falling right back into place—and Shuuzou’s damned if he’s going to let this chance slip away. He lets his arm slide lower down to the small of Tatsuya’s back.

“You want to go back to my room?”

Tatsuya stiffens; it’s like the beginning all over again, Shuuzou being accidentally too forward because with Tatsuya everything is so precisely decided and there are places that he’s just not allowed to go but he’s too impatient—but this time Tatsuya’s grip tightens on his shoulder.

“Yes.”

* * *

In five years Tatsuya’s body has changed—it’s mostly the same; the same places still respond to Shuuzou’s touches and kisses and his body is still firm and taut, but there are moles on his arm that hadn’t been there the last time Shuuzou had gotten a proper look and he’s not quite as flexible as he once was, nor as eager to please. And everything feels new again; he’s rediscovering Tatsuya bit-by-bit and he almost doesn’t want to finish (and they don’t have quite as much stamina as they used to).

He wakes up to Tatsuya still in his arms, still pressed against his chest and smiling in his sleep. His breathing is steady; his body is warm—Shuuzou hasn’t felt this good, this satisfied, in a long time. And maybe this is just a one-night-for-old-time’s-sake thing, but it’s an awfully nice way to go out (and a departure from the last bitter night they’d had together back in Los Angeles). And then Tatsuya rolls over, blinking up at him.

His good-morning kiss is sloppy and smooth and full of want, like the way he’d kiss Shuuzou when he’d been really happy or when he’d wanted to have sex because he was in the mood and not because he’d rather distract from talking about issues that hit too close to the heart; for a moment this all feels too good to be true. Tatsuya touches his cheek; his cool fingertip is way too real, a splash into the pool on a hot day.

“When do you have practice?”

Shuuzou groans. “I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to get up.”

Tatsuya laughs.

Shuuzou cranes his neck to look at the clock. “Fuck.”

He’s got forty-five minutes to be at the practice courts and they’re relatively far away; if he spends another minute in bed he’ll probably be late (even if he cuts his shower short).

“I have to go,” he says, pulling back—and then leaning back in, leaving a quick kiss on Tatsuya’s mouth. “Get some more sleep.”

When he gets out of the shower, Tatsuya’s asleep again—Shuuzou lets his gaze linger on the way the sheets are bunched up around him and the contours of his bare arm against the blankets.

* * *

They end up back in Shuuzou’s room the next night, and again several nights after that. It’s so easy to fall back into the familiar routines that at once aren’t familiar at all. This Tatsuya is is a little bit more open and free, a little bit more willing to let himself enjoy things, and Shuuzou finds himself responding differently to what he says and how he says it—their banter still has an easy pace; they still know so much of each other’s history and makeup, but it’s adjusted to a new consistency. And Shuuzou finds himself liking this very much.

It’s not long before they’re going back to Tatsuya’s room, too; though Shuuzou doesn’t pry very much into the stuff he has lying around or what’s going on in his personal life he’s much more willing to share it, much less overly-careful with the things he chooses to disclose. It’s all relative, of course; he’s not particularly forthcoming and there are some things Shuuzou knows he wouldn’t be able to touch from across the half-court line. And maybe this is just because they already knew each other, that he’d already opened himself up to Shuuzou before (even if he’d sewn himself shut tighter than a tapestry at the end), that he’s decided with himself that this is only for the duration of the tournament—but maybe it isn’t. And maybe they’ve grown up enough to give it another shot—and maybe it’s the infatuation talking, but there’s too much else at work here for Shuuzou to dismiss it as that in good faith. Every second is a reminder as to why giving it up hurt so damn much in the first place; every moment is a reminder that this is a second chance he cannot waste.

* * *

“Stay,” Shuuzou says.

He presses his palm to Tatsuya’s bare chest, his thumb lying over Tatsuya’s heart. Tatsuya’s bangs are clear of his face; even under the dim overhead lights his face is clear—no matter how much he’s grown and changed, he still doesn’t show that to very many people. He’s still got his vanity; he’s still got a great many things—he’s still, fundamentally, the same Tatsuya. And Shuuzou’s still the same, too, and he’d fought the instinct to ask this of Tatsuya earlier (as impulsively as he once might have), and not just because it might frighten Tatsuya away. Because who’s to say it’s a good idea, that it won’t end up the same way it did last time?

But Tatsuya might not run away like a startled animal at that sort of question anymore, even that quickly—because they have grown up, because they’ve done some thinking on their own and now, maybe they’ve finished up their rough edges enough to fit together properly, rather than at some derivative approximation that they overlook until they’ve worn each other down too far.

“I have a contract to fulfill,” Tatsuya says, light enough for Shuuzou not to know what he really means.

“When does that end?”

“October. September if I’m not lucky.”

“Come back after that?”

Tatsuya reaches up to brush a few stray hairs off Shuuzou’s forehead; his fingers are deliberately lingering and Shuuzou wants to catch them and keep them there. But it’s beside the point.

“If you’ll have me then,” says Tatsuya.

“Of course,” says Shuuzou. “Stay as long as you want.”

Tatsuya laughs; Shuuzou tries not to cringe—he’s still overeager, even now; he’s still just as lovestruck as he’d been at fifteen and had known little more about Tatsuya than his name and how he could fight. But it’s not a mocking laugh; its effect is whisked away by Tatsuya’s fingers still tracing lines down his jaw.

“I might have a job to go back to,” says Tatsuya. “But we’ll see.”

And Shuuzou resists the urge to tell him that there are coaching jobs here, that he could probably even play here—and the urge to count this as anything more or less than what it is. It’s temporary; it might even be more fleeting than one of Tatsuya’s shots hanging in the air the way they had so long ago. But it’s still a promise; it’s still a hope. Tatsuya’s fingers brush over Shuuzou’s ear, and Shuuzou leans in to kiss him again.


End file.
